


His Gift of Words

by mk_malfoy



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M, community: snarry_holidays 2009
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mk_malfoy/pseuds/mk_malfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does a word have to do with Severus's survival? Everything! Epilogue-compliant if you want it to be. Non-epilogue-compliant for those of you who don't want it to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Gift of Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stepmnstr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepmnstr/gifts).



** Title ** : His Gift of Words

** Author ** : MK Malfoy (Sev1970)

** Word Count ** : 16,000

** Rating ** : R

** Pairing ** : Severus Snape/Harry Potter

** Warnings ** : None

** Disclaimer ** : All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

** Summary ** : What does a word have to do with Severus's survival? Everything! Epilogue-compliant if you want it to be. Non-epilogue-compliant for those of you who don't want it to be.

** Author's Notes ** : Thanks so much to the incredibly amazing mods who graciously indulged my need for perfection. My lovely, talented and speedy beta, hidden_lily, who beta'd most of the fic (the other parts that she didn't beta is a whole other story for another time), also deserves copious amounts of praise. I wrote this for stepmnstr for the snarry_holidays 2009 fic exchange and hope that she enjoyed it.

** His Gift of Words,  ** transcribed by Alexander Draco Snape, who was told this by his father, Albus Severus Potter

**   
Forward **

**   
**

There lives within me a story about two individuals who are dear to my heart: Severus Snape and Harry Potter—two extraordinary individuals who tried to lead ordinary lives. They taught me more than I will ever be able to impart to my own children, and it is my fervent hope that the words that follow will find a willing reader or two who needs the lesson(s) this story extols.

I have shared this narrative with countless people, innumerable times, and it is my hope that my children and their children will continue this tradition when they are of age (Allow me the cautionary warning that the words I am about to share with you lend themselves to an adult tale, not a child’s.).

When my sister, Anne, and I began reminiscing about our childhoods earlier this year, the full impact of what could become of our most treasured story hit us; we realised that our past could very well be lost to future generations. There was nothing else for it—I made the decision to pen this tale.

As wonderful and promising as this project is, Anne is skeptical; she does not believe that I will be able to translate such an oration into readable words, and she doubts my ability to write in such a way that interests people. As she puts it, I am rather droll, a trait I seem to have inherited from my grandfather Severus.

Ye of little faith, Sis.

When we were told the story, our father used different voices and inflections, and he made facial expressions throughout, so we knew how everyone felt and thought as they spoke or acted. Those nuances will be lost with the written form, which saddens me, because those extra bits were every bit as exciting, and sometimes more, than the words of the story. I’ll never be able to relay all that I want in the manner I would wish to do so, but that is a sacrifice I am willing to make.

Please indulge me one other brief mention before we begin: This book is dedicated to three people. Two of them I will mention after I tell this tale. The other is my father, Albus, who told me this most beloved of stories on the eve of my wedding. I had made a remark in haste to my most loving intended and she said she no longer wished to marry me. Poppa took pity on me, sat Bellatrix and me down, and told us this story. He saved our marriage even before it began. I will forever be grateful for his love that day. He could have told me I got what I deserved, yet he did no such thing. Thank you, Poppa. Love always, your dearest and most beloved son, Alexander Draco Snape.

  


** Our tale begins soon, but first a bit of background information… **

**   
**

**   
** Rituals at birth, once commonplace, are now deemed unnecessary by most, but the older and more venerated families (usually the wealthier ones) continue to perform this ritual, thinking it will place their new wizard or witch in good standing. It is likely that this costly and lengthy custom will continue in one form or another for centuries to come.

Another ritual, however—the one performed after death—has all but died out, even amongst the wealthiest of families. These complex rites of passage, filled with obsolete and unpronounceable words, consume such immense energy and time that rarely will any family take the initiative to perform them properly, and improperly performed Death Rituals are akin to damning a soul to permanent itinerancy, so, understandably, this practice has waned in recent centuries.

Occasionally, a family will observe the Death Ritual, more often than not, in an attempt to right a wrong by the dearly departed, then there are those select families who continue to live according to the old ways.

In the tale following, both of these reasons explain why an elderly man, in his eighties, wished for his grandson a proper burial. This feeble, yet determined wizened wizard was from a wealthy family with the surname of Prince, and he had a grandson who had, to his family’s dismay, gone astray. As heartbroken as this man was for his daughter at the misfortune of having such a disappointment for a son, he was equally determined that all ills, no matter how grievous, could be righted by the Death Ritual.

That cool July day, as he set out to reclaim his grandson, Jebediah Prince could not have possibly imagined how his attempt to honour a family tradition and restore a soul would change the lives of two people.

  


** SH  **

**   
**

This story begins with our protagonist as he is about to make the first of many decisions that will have far reaching implications for the remainder of his life.

  


** SH  **

**   
**

Harry Potter, eighteen years of age in physical terms, yet more than twice that if experience counted towards the aging process, sighed rather heartily at having _seemingly _escaped prying eyes, although, he knew he’d done no such thing. To be sure, the figure of Minerva McGonagall, his former Head of House, the current Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and his most ardent of supporters, was sure to walk out and find him within the hour if he hadn’t first found her. It seemed that vanquishing evil Dark Lords was cause for over indulgence, and Harry, who had rid the wizarding world of the feared Voldemort, had been the recipient of much more attention than he cared to think about.

His time limited, he sat beneath the tree by the lake and withdrew the parchment from his cloak pocket. He had a decision to make, and today was the day he had to make it … alone, by himself, without interference from those who meant well but whose futures were not his.

Hermione, one of his two best friends, who was in Australia retrieving her parents, had given him her opinion, as had his friend, Neville, Headmistress McGonagall, and Kingsley Shacklebolt (someone who had a vested interest in Harry’s future). Each of their ideas had been very much expected, as had Ron’s, Harry’s other best friend, who had advised him to bypass each of the listed choices. Harry was tempted, really, he was. Working at the joke shop in Diagon Alley, where Ron and his brother, George, now spent their days, unfortunately, was not among his choices, however.

Luna Lovegood, one of Harry’s more … _unique_ friends, a witch who went out of her way to be different, had been the only one who had refused to give her thoughts. She’d told Harry that whatever he decided to do would be what she would want him to do, and then patted him on the back and said it was time he did what he wanted to do and not what others wanted him to do.

Luna had a point.

The thoughts about how much his friends cared for him brought a smile to Harry’s face. He had experienced many disappointments in his life because of the lack of feeling wanted or needed. Thankfully, those former feelings of abandonment and hopelessness had long ago taken their leave, even as they did rear their ugly heads from time to time. Still, Harry knew he was far better off than he had been eight years earlier.

Friends were definitely not lacking in his life. He had no parents, no real family—that he wished to claim—that is, nor any romantic interest (When the _Chosen One_ preferred the intimate company of wizards over witches, it wasn’t news people wanted to hear, thus Harry had all but given up on finding someone, at least while he resided at Hogwarts.).

Whatever he was or wasn’t, he would never be alone, and, for that, Harry was thankful.

Laughter and chatter temporarily broke through his silent reverie as a few of the staff members passed by on their way to the nearby village of Hogsmeade, but soon enough Harry was again surrounded by an almost oppressive stillness: It was as if nature were trying to help him with his important decision. Glancing down at the marks on the parchment reminded him that he had already made his decision and that this was merely him being absolutely certain that he had made the correct one. _The remainder of his life could very well depend on it. _Harry snorted at the thought of the words McGonagall had said to him more than a few times over the past month. As if … who knew what they wanted to do with their life at the age of eighteen? According to McGonagall, she had, as had Flitwick, Harry’s former Charms teacher. So, of course, Harry should know what he wanted to do with his life. If only life were that easy ….

His choices for the future were:

_   
~~Choice A: Leave Hogwarts, the school I attended for six years, and find a secluded place far away where no one has heard of Harry Potter, the boy who defeated Voldemort.~~ _

_~~Choice B: Leave Hogwarts and become an Auror~~ (someone who chases dark wizards)._

_Choice C: Return to Hogwarts for seventh year and then leave Hogwarts and become an Auror._

_~~Choice D: Become Slughorn’s apprentice~~ (Slughorn, the infamous Potions professor who had collected Harry in sixth year. The story behind that is an interesting one, but not important to the telling of this tale.)._

Choice A was appealing for all the obvious reasons, and this was the choice Harry desired for himself. He wanted this to be his life. However, he knew that no matter where he went, and no matter that no one else might know about him, he would know who he was and what he should be doing.

Choice A was a definite no. Harry let out a small sigh as he placed another mark through it and moved to the next choice.

Choice B scared him. Yes, he wanted to be an Auror, more than anything, but, was he ready? After the previous year’s exploits, when he had searched throughout Britain for the Horcruxes that had kept the evil monster, known as Voldemort, alive, Kingsley, the Head of the Auror division, thought Harry more than prepared, but Harry did not. More than likely, one year would not be the magical cure-all that would see a ready and able Auror-in-training Potter, but a year would give him time, and Harry needed time.

He drew a line through the already marked-through choice. Kingsley would be disappointed.

Choice C was perhaps Harry’s least palatable option, yet the one that beckoned to him. After the year he had just been through, he longed for normalcy and, as completely mad as it was to admit, structure. Soon enough society would dictate that he act as an adult and make decisions that would indeed have repercussions for the remainder of his life, but, for now he craved a few more months where he was one of the many … without the obligations that the other choices would cause him to have.

Choice D caused Harry to laugh aloud. Severus Snape, his Potions professor for five years, must surely be rolling over in his grave at the mere idea that Harry Potter would possibly be assisting in the manufacture of anything potion-related; Harry couldn’t help but agree with Snape’s probable assessment. Honestly … him? A Potions apprentice? Slughorn had offered the position to him two weeks earlier. Harry had smiled and said he’d think about it—that had been the tactful way to decline the offer.

Harry put four lines through that one.

His choice confirmed, Harry felt somewhat better, but not much. Neither of his best friends would be with him for his final year at Hogwarts and, as much as he wanted to return to his familiar surroundings, he knew he’d feel suffocated with the structure after a year traipsing across England, Wales and Scotland. Nevertheless, it was what he would do, because it was what he needed to do, consequences be damned.

He folded the parchment, placed it in his cloak pocket, and was about to stand, but stopped when his peripheral vision alerted him to movement from his left: the figure of an elderly man was walking towards him. Unsure what he should do, Harry cautiously reached for his wand.

Since the horrific events of 01 and 02 May 1998, the staff, three students, and a select few Ministry officials and Order members had been the only external entities allowed to set foot on Hogwarts grounds.

Everyone knew to be on the lookout for strangers, but no one had said what to do if one appeared. Harry’s immediate inclination was to send his Patronus to Professor McGonagall, who was currently meeting with Ministry officials regarding the resetting of wards before students returned, but he decided to first ascertain what the stranger wanted. If he could deal with this person, then that would be one less worry for the Headmistress to have to contend with, and that could only be a good thing as she was prone to outbursts these days.

Harry, Luna and Neville, the only three students allowed to remain at Hogwarts, had come to the conclusion that she was upset with herself over how very wrong she had been about Severus Snape, a former teacher who she and most everyone else thought bad, who had died a cruel death. It seemed that she would never forgive herself. Harry had once tried to console the Headmistress by telling her that Snape had fooled everyone, but rather than making things better, his words had only served to set her off once again. She had stalked off, saying words such as: _poor Severus _and_ if you only knew_. Harry had never again spoken about Snape with McGonagall.

As the stranger continued towards him, Harry tried his best not to stare, but found it impossible to keep his eyes averted. A black hood hid the majority of the stranger’s face. The walking stick shakily held in the man’s left hand did little to help his perilously slow gait. He was not short, but neither was he overly tall. His build was slight. Harry wondered how long he had been travelling. His cloak looked worn, as if it had seen numerous winters. When the man lifted his head, a few black hairs escaped the confines of the hood, which surprised Harry; he had expected to see grey or white hair. Perhaps the man was not as elderly as he appeared from afar.

Harry stood when the man was only a few meters away, and was about to step forward when the wizard shook his head. Curious and more than a bit affronted by the gesture, Harry halted his progress. Then it was his turn to shake his head as recognition began to register. The man was now close enough for Harry to see him clearly, and it was more than a bit disconcerting. Harry’s mouth opened, but no words came forth.

No, it couldn’t be.

Definitely not.

Yet, it had to be. Harry again shook his head in disbelief. Even with wrinkles and age spots, the sallow-looking skin; sharp facial features; penetrating black eyes, ones that looked as if they were burning holes through you; the cold, angry expression … Harry would bet every last Galleon he had that this wizard was a Snape.

Warning bells—the silent, yet blatant type—went off. Why was a Snape at Hogwarts … _now_? The funeral for Harry’s former Potions teacher had been two months earlier. Why hadn’t his family come then? Truth be told, Harry hadn’t ever given much thought to Snape’s family; he had assumed there was none. But seeing this man now, well, there could be little doubt that he was a Snape. Harry tried to smile, or at least look welcoming, but he was almost certain that the attempt would not succeed. He found himself unexpectedly angry. If this were indeed a relative of Snape’s, then he should have paid his respects properly at the funeral.

The man appraised Harry as a father would his misbehaving child. Harry felt his unavoidable glare intensify. For a student who had all but hated Snape for almost seven years, he now felt immense grief for Severus Snape and wanted to prevent this wizard from entering Hogwarts. It was irrational and without merit, but it was how Harry felt. “Hello, might I help you?” Harry asked, trying his best not to sound as angry as he felt. After all, he had no idea what this man’s story was. Snape’s relative might have a good explanation for only coming now. Harry doubted that to be the truth in this situation, but he had been wrong before, and hadn’t it been Severus Snape who had taught him that appearances and actions could be deceiving?

The man removed his hood, allowing long black hair to blow freely in the wind. “I need to speak to Minerva McGonagall,” said a gruff, yet firm voice that did not match the man’s supposed advanced age. “And I don’t have all day, lad.”

Harry leant down, retrieved his cloak, and threw it over his arm. “Is she expecting you?” he asked, not expecting an answer, but wanting to know. He didn’t think McGonagall would be happy about this visit, even if she were expecting the man, which, now that he thought about it, she had to be—only wizards and witches with clearance were allowed entrance onto the grounds of Hogwarts.

“Not that it is any of your business, boy, but yes, she is expecting me. In fact, your incessant and unnecessary questions are going to make me late,” added the sneering wizard, now looking even more like Snape than before.

Ten minutes later a reticent Harry left McGonagall’s office. He wished to stay, but the Headmistress had sent him on an errand, no doubt to keep him away from what was about to take place. He was tempted to turn around and try to listen through the door, but when he heard Filch shuffling down the corridor towards him, he had an idea. He quickened his pace so that he would meet Filch as the wheezing caretaker turned the corner.

Thirty minutes later, a pale McGonagall exited her office to find Harry seated on the floor in the corridor. “Didn’t I ask you to go find Professor Flitwick, Harry?”

Harry, more interested in whoever might still be inside the Headmistress’s office than anything she had to say to him, tried to peer around her, but she was blocking the threshold, making it impossible to see if there was anyone inside. A few seconds later, when she cleared her throat and sighed, rather exaggeratedly, as if she were put-upon, which Harry thought she probably was, he returned his attention to her. “Er sorry. I found him; he said he’ll be here as soon as his meeting is over. Who was that man? He looked like—” A sharp glare stopped him from continuing, but if McGonagall thought that would silence him for good, she was wrong. He would get his answers.

“Who that man was is none of your concern, Harry, but I do believe we have something else to discuss, am I correct? You were to give me your decision today,” said a stern and defiant Minerva McGonagall, leaving no room for further discussion on the previous matter.

Harry felt as if he were being talked down to, much like a child, and he resented such treatment, but he nodded, disappointed, but not deterred from his objective. He was fully prepared to broach the subject again after he informed the Headmistress of his decision that he’d made while sitting by the lake. He stood and followed her inside. “I want to return to Hogwarts,” spilled out of his mouth before the door had a chance to close. He heard a small gasp, and then watched as McGonagall turned around and did her best to smile.

Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had seen such an expression on her face.

He sat down in the familiar chair that he’d sat in year after year—he wondered how many more times he would sit there—and waited for McGonagall’s response as she sat down behind her desk, the same one Albus Dumbledore, the former Headmaster, had sat behind. Harry missed the Headmaster, who was currently sleeping within his framed portrait, which hung directly behind the desk. Small snores were currently the only sound throughout the room, yet it was a constant noise—each of the other headmasters and headmistresses were taking afternoon kips as well.

Harry returned his attention to McGonagall, who was studying him rather attentively. He had no doubt caught her off guard with his decision. Most everyone had expected him to leave and become an Auror. Truth be told, so had he … until a week earlier when someone told him that they envied him. Harry had had to fight the urge to laugh at the absurdity of such a comment, especially because of who had said it. Harry had replied, rather flippantly, with the retort that boys who survived the Killing Curse, and young men who killed (He hadn’t of course, but everyone said he had, so …) Dark Lords were somewhat over-rated.

What Harry wanted was a normal life away from prying eyes. It was a small want, yet it seemed unattainable; he was, after all, _the boy who lived_, and he’d done _wonderful and amazing things_, things that people were only too happy to remind him about (as if he could forget …).

So it was this disconcerting comment from Draco Malfoy that finally made Harry decide what he would do.

There was talk that Malfoy would return to Hogwarts in a few weeks, but as of yet, Harry had yet to hear any confirmation. As awkward as it might be, Harry actually hoped that Malfoy would return. So much had changed; Malfoy’s presence would pay testament to a saying that Petunia Dursley had been quite fond of: _A cold, unfeeling relationship is better than no relationship. _Harry had never understood how anyone could think such a thought, but now he thought he might understand. It was about as dysfunctional a thought as he had ever had, but it was how he felt.

As if she heard his irrational thoughts, McGonagall frowned, but then smiled, and this time it did not seem forced. “I am pleased to hear that you want to return to Hogwarts, Harry. I am afraid our numbers will be substantially lower this term, but we must persevere. We will not yield to fear now or ever, not when it is in our power to overcome,” said a defiant McGonagall, although her voice lacked the sharp and biting conviction she had used, much to her benefit, in lessons. That person, the Deputy Headmistress, who had for so long been in a position to give counsel and assist the one in charge, was now the person in charge.

It was not an enviable position.

She opened the top desk drawer, retrieved a parchment, and handed it to Harry. “You will be able to create your own timetable, and allowances will be made. I realise this will not be easy for you, but I do think you are making the correct decision, Harry.”

Time would tell. Harry merely nodded. He had several questions related to his lessons, but those could wait; he had more pressing matters to address, and there was no time like the present to find out about the strange man who looked so very much like an older Snape. “Was that man a relative of Professor Snape’s?” Harry waited impatiently for a few seconds, then sighed and began to stand, thinking he’d get no response, but McGonagall motioned for him to remain seated. Harry nodded, eagerly awaiting an explanation.

McGonagall gave a curt nod, then stood. “He is Severus’s mother’s father, Jebediah Prince,” were the terse words that came out of her mouth.

“What does he want?” Again, Harry wasn’t at all certain he would receive an answer, but he wanted to know and one would never know if they didn’t ask, right? Persistence did pay off … some of the time.

McGonagall walked over to the window and looked out, then turned to face Harry, the deep lines in her face seeming to grow a bit heavier. "I am bound by my position to not reveal what this is about, Harry. Please do not push this issue. I am well aware how persistent you can be, so I will advise you now that if you want to thank Professor Snape for what he did for you, now would be the time to do so by not becoming involved.”

A strange request, and a foolhardy one, at that. Didn’t McGonagall know her student? If the Headmistress had been trying to deter Harry, she hadn’t succeeded. In fact, she had rather done the opposite. Harry was more determined than ever to find out what was going on, but he would have to do so carefully. He had a million questions, but remained silent. A few minutes later, he took his leave.

Two days later, after a long day of visiting with Ron and George in Diagon Alley, reminiscing with Mrs Weasley at the Burrow, and flying on the Quidditch pitch, Harry was about to enter the entrance hall when Filch approached him.

Harry grinned. Filch had information. “Have you found out anything?”

Filch nodded. “Remember the room across the corridor from where Fluffy, the three-headed-dog, guarded the Philosopher’s Stone? The one I caught you trying to open in fourth year when you were trying to find out why the Slytherins were being secretive?” added Filch, his each word rather condescending, as if he wished to not be sharing such information, which was probably the truth.

Harry reluctantly nodded; he knew how much Filch had detested him as a student. In fact, Harry wasn’t completely convinced that he could trust Filch now. The two had never got on well, but the man did seem to grudgingly respect him now that he had rid them of Voldemort. The change in demeanor actually disturbed Harry, but as it might benefit him in this situation, he’d accept the change. Nevertheless, it was eerie and disconcerting to think about how quickly one could go from the Most Wanted and feared to the most revered in a matter of days. Whenever Harry went out these days, he could never be certain if people were talking to him because they really wanted to talk to him, or if they merely wished to say they had conversed with _The Harry Potter._

Realising he had kept Filch waiting, Harry nodded. He would trust the Caretaker, at least until Filch proved to him that he couldn’t be trusted.

“This morning, early, about five, I guess it was,” said Filch, his voice much softer, as if he didn’t wish others to hear what he had to say, “I overheard Minerva talking to someone about a Death Ritual. She sounded angry; I never heard her speak like that before. Then, a few minutes ago, I heard her and that other wizard, the old man who looks like Professor Snape, arguing outside that room, and I think Severus Snape’s name was mentioned. If you go to the third-floor corridor, Mr Potter, I bet you’ll find what you’ve been looking for.”

Ten minutes later, just as Filch had said he would, Harry heard voices as he approached the room mentioned. He peeked around the corner and saw McGonagall and Snape’s grandfather speaking with raised voices. McGonagall no longer looked sad and forlorn, but determined and angry. She held a parchment in her right hand, and the old man looked just as he had the last time Harry had seen him. Mr Prince was leaning against the window. If he turned his head to the right, he would see Harry, but fortunately, for Harry, he did no such thing.

“…Yes, I do understand how very important the ritual is, Mr Prince. Do not presume that I do not.”

“Then why are you not allowing me to remove my grandson’s body? It is my right as his grandfather.”

“Yes, Mr Prince,” said a now pensive sounding McGonagall, “but—“

“But nothing, Headmistress McGonagall. You are aware of how important the ritual is. My grandson became involved in a rather unsavory crowd and got himself killed. He was never going to amount to anything and is not worth all this trouble I have gone through, but my daughter loved him and I think we need to attempt to atone for all of the horrible things he did,” replied a rather put-upon sounding Grandfather Prince. “I travelled many perilous miles to return his body to his mother. I will not leave without it.” His dark eyes seemed to pierce the Headmistress.

McGonagall looked horror-struck. Snape’s grandfather appeared angry. What was going on? How could anyone speak so ill regarding a deceased loved-one? Even if it was Snape.

And what about the ritual? Harry guessed they were discussing a Death Ritual, which was a sacred ceremony. Why would McGonagall refuse to return Snape’s body to his grandfather? Not that Harry wanted the man to take Snape’s body anywhere, but wasn’t that his right? And wasn’t there some form of punishment if a body was not returned to its family once requested? Harry vaguely recalled Ron mentioning that his great uncle Siral lost his teeth when he refused to return his deceased wife to her family.

“…I should have known when he was born that Severus would be no good,” added the old man, his words filled with hatred.

The green of Harry’s eyes became almost invisible as they narrowed into slits.

Harry had, after much thought, decided to heed McGonagall’s request of a few days earlier to not ask questions or become involved with what was going on (That did not mean he would not do his own snooping around, however.)—honestly, that had been his intent—but how could he not say anything after hearing what he had? It was unthinkable. Snape’s grandfather needed to know—he needed to be told that his grandson had not been worthless. Such news mightn’t matter to the older man, but it mattered to Harry.

Without much thought, Harry turned the corner and revealed himself to McGonagall and Snape’s grandfather. He glared as the elderly wizard glanced at him with surprise on his face, and watched as the quizzical look quickly turned to anger once again. It was this change in expression that spurred Harry to speak, but he found it difficult to voice exactly what he wished to convey.

McGonagall looked about ready to burst a blood vessel as her lips pressed together and as the wrinkles on her forehead became more pronounced. Harry knew he was in trouble, but this, whatever this ended up being, was worth it, and he only hoped the words he was about to speak would perhaps mitigate her fury. If not, well, that was that. Harry would incur her wrath if that was what he had to do.

His voice and thoughts finally coming together, Harry cleared his throat and did his best to sound intimidating—it might have helped somewhat had he not looked as if he had been playing Quidditch all afternoon. Mr Prince was staring at him as if he were a specimen he had scraped off the bottom of his shoe. Harry glared. “Your grandson saved my life, Mr Prince.” McGonagall shook her head at Harry, but he ignored the warning. “If it hadn’t been for Professor Snape, I would have died. He saved many, many lives, and I think you need to know that. No, he and I did not get along. I rather hated him most of the time, but that doesn’t change the fact that he saved my life. I owe him my thanks. You have no right to come in here and spout off all these negative things about your grandson when he died a hero. He is most definitely not worthless and he did amount to something rather significant!” Harry finished, his voice now much louder than when he’d begun.

“Mr Potter, that is quite enough!” said McGonagall, her voice giving warning.

Harry shook his head as he turned towards her. “No, Professor, he needs to know. I wish I had known that Professor Snape did everything in his power to save me. He has done that from day one of my being at this school, Mr Prince,” Harry added as he turned his attention back to the elder Prince. “He didn’t like me, but he saw to it that I came to no harm."

  


** SH **

**   
**

Harry neither heard nor saw either McGonagall or Snape’s grandfather for two days. He knew that McGonagall was busy preparing for the re-opening of the school (which seemed to be pushed back with each passing day), and he knew that he’d be the last person Snape’s grandfather would seek out, but he wished to know what the man was going to do and why McGonagall seemed so troubled with his presence. There was something not adding up.

If Hermione weren’t almost two-thousand miles away, Harry would be seeking her counsel, and even with her in Australia, Harry knew he could Floo her if he really needed to, which he thought was becoming more probable with each passing day.

The following morning began as any other, but when Harry walked down to the Great Hall, McGonagall approached him and looked apprehensive … and fatigued, as if she hadn’t slept the night previous. Perhaps she hadn’t. Whatever was about to come out of her mouth would surely be bad news.

Accustomed as he was to such, Harry nonetheless found himself anxious.

“Harry, could you please follow me?” Perhaps she had asked, but it was not a request. Her hands shook ever so slightly as she held a handkerchief in her left hand. She lifted it to cover a yawn, but it concealed nothing. She didn’t look at all happy.

He followed her to the third-floor corridor, then to the room Filch had told him about a few days previous. He had to repress the grin that threatened. Was he about to discover what was going on? He couldn’t imagine that could be the case, but perhaps … perhaps.

McGonagall retrieved a large key from her robe pocket and placed it in the keyhole, then turned it. As excited and expectant as he was, Harry was uncharacteristically apprehensive. He had, after all, returned for his seventh year with the hope of attaining some form of normalcy. Was what he was about to encounter going to impede his quest for such?

He looked around him, as if expecting someone else to appear, but no one did. It was as quiet in the corridor as a Quidditch match was loud, and the oppressive feeling in the air weighed him down as if a thousand Dementors were descending upon him—it was a feeling he hadn’t experienced since that fateful night when his friends had had to conjure their Patronuses to save him. The mere thought of that horrible few moments caused Harry to shiver. He returned his attention to McGonagall when she cleared her throat.

“I am counting on your discretion, Mr Potter,” were the only words spoken by the Headmistress as she opened the door and entered the room.

Harry followed. It was dark, and smelled of vanilla and cinnamon. As Harry’s eyes continued to acclimate to the surroundings, he could make out a small fire burning across the room. He followed McGonagall (a good thing that was—even with a small fire it was difficult to see), and then stopped when she did. There was a sofa in front of them, and, to their right, a bed—a bed occupied. Someone was lying in it, on their back, a duvet covering them to their chin. Harry stared for a few seconds, looking to his left when he heard a small intake of breath. Mr Prince was seated on the other side of the bed, looking sadly at the person beneath the duvet. Harry shook his head and looked at McGonagall, wondering what was going on.

He should, of course, have realised immediately what was going on, but, as we all know, we often see and hear that which we want to, and do not see and hear that which we do not want to, but should.

McGonagall merely motioned towards the bed with her head. Harry, now completely flummoxed, returned his gaze to the figure, then slowly, very slowly, and unbelievably, his mind began to register who this person must be.

It couldn’t be.

But it had to be.

Slowly he turned to the Headmistress. “Snape?” he said, a bit louder than he should have, and with more than a touch of anxiety. How? He heard a grunt and turned to see Snape’s grandfather looking at him angrily.

“My grandson is sleeping. Keep your voice down,” were the only words the man spoke before he returned his attention to Snape.

McGonagall then looked at Harry as if he were a child who should know better than to speak loudly when someone was ill or sleeping. Properly mollified, Harry wanted to speak, to ask what in Merlin’s name was going on, but he thought it best that he wait for either McGonagall or Snape’s grandfather to speak. He turned towards the fire, then back to Snape. Was this really happening? How? Snape had died. Harry had watched him. Well, he hadn’t known that Snape had _for sure_ died, but Snape had looked dead, so Harry had assumed that such a thing had indeed happened.

“Severus,” the older man said a few seconds later as he stood and walked to the bedside and reached for his grandson’s pale hand, “was not dead. It seems that he was merely in a deep sleep, and that your words in support of him have awakened him, Mr Potter. My wife always told me words had power. I never believed her. Now I do.” Then he turned towards Harry. “Follow me.” He began walking towards the door, but looked back when Harry didn’t move. “Like my grandson, my bark is much worse than my bite.” Gone was the biting, abrasive manner in which the man had spoken the previous time he and Harry conversed.

Harry was confused; his mind was reeling from the implications of what he had been told. How could his words have propelled Snape to wake up? There was no way that could have happened.

Doubting what the elderly wizard said, Harry nonetheless felt compelled to do as the man said because he thought that perhaps he would get more of an explanation. He looked for guidance from McGonagall; she would know what he should do, or Harry hoped she would. Unfortunately, from Harry’s vantage point, she was almost indiscernible within the confines of the barely lit room. Harry was on his own.

“If you wish to know what this is about, Mr Potter, then you might do well to heed Mr Prince’s request,” said McGonagall, her voice soft, yet forceful.

Perhaps he was not so alone, after all.

Bolstered by the encouragement from the Headmistress, Harry followed Snape’s grandfather out of the room, but turned back and looked at Snape. The once formidable and bitter man now looked fragile and peaceful. The difference was decidedly disturbing to Harry.

Once they were out in the corridor, Harry sat in one of two chairs near the room, but Snape’s grandfather remained standing, and began to pace.

Harry wondered what was going on. This was all getting a bit eerie, and Harry had had more than enough of eerie to last him a life time, thank you very much.

Just as he was about to speak, the man sighed, sat down in the other chair, and looked at him—completely bereft. Harry opened his mouth, but shut it when Snape’s grandfather shook his head.

“Please accept my apologies for being so very evasive, Mr Potter. It has been an unbearably difficult past few days. As much as I should be overjoyed that my grandson has survived, I am not, but— ah, yes, of course, you would look at me with disgust, the same as your Headmistress did, but do not take that as me saying I wish Severus would have died; I would never wish that on anyone. What I said is the truth, however.

“My grandson would be better off dead. At least then we could have sent him off with a cleansed soul. As it is now, I have made a rather difficult journey … for nothing, and as I am the only one who seems to care about my grandson’s soul, no one else will be calling to save him from himself. You seem to think he did some good in the world. It is rather difficult to believe this of my grandson, but, for him and for you, I hope what you have told me is correct, and I have to say that there must be something to what you have said. For my grandson to have awakened when he did, under the circumstances he was in, there had to be a compelling reason for him to do so. He was near death, yet he woke up a few hours after he heard you speak in defence of him. A bond has to exist for that to happen. My grandson has some connection with you. Perchance, were you the last person he saw before he lost consciousness?” asked the feeble man with piercing eyes. The combination was rather disheartening.

How? What? Harry swallowed. Unnerved by the idea that Snape’s grandfather thought his trip had been for _nothing,_ Harry wasn’t at all sure he was following, and now the man was saying that he had some form of a bond with Snape, and that had caused him to regain consciousness? Harry didn’t know what to think, but he did know that he wanted to get as far away from this situation as possible. “Er, yeah,” he said, hesitantly, because he couldn’t lie—he had been the last person to speak to Snape … that he knew of.

The man looked at Harry and smiled as he nodded. “He must have spoken to you as he prepared to die. The near-dead as well as dead have connections with those who are near them when they depart this world. For whatever reason, my grandson had such a connection with you, and you were able to call him back from near death when you spoke words that were true of him. He would not have responded had you been telling untruths, or so that is what I have been led to believe over these many years that I have lived.”

Harry shook his head, thinking that this had to be a joke; was someone taking the piss out of him? This was just like something George would do. Harry wished that were the case. “But he didn’t like me,” he added, not sure why. As if that would matter.

“That does not matter in the least, Mr Potter. _Like_ has nothing to do with this. There was a bond; there is no denying that. You saved my grandson’s life. As I have already said, this is not something I am happy about, but being that this has happened, and as Severus is going to have to live with what he has done, I have a favour to ask of you before I leave, and if my son saved your life, as you say he did, then you owe it to his family to carry out this favour.”

Those black eyes were set deeply, and were aged, but that did not diminish the intensity of them in the least. They were the eyes that Severus Snape would most likely possess in about fifty years. Harry nodded but didn’t want to. Yes, Snape had saved his life, and Harry owed him, so by default, he owed Snape’s family a favour … didn’t he? He wished McGonagall were near so he could ask for her counsel on this matter, but she was with Snape. This time, Harry _was_ on his own. He didn’t know what to say. He sighed rather deeply. What had he got himself into?

“Were you lying to me, Mr Potter? Did my grandson not save your life?”

Not willing to let the man spout off more negatives regarding Snape, Harry took a deep breath and forged ahead. He was Harry Potter, wasn’t he? That had to count for something in the courage department. “Professor Snape did save my life, sir. I will honour whatever you ask of me. I owe that to your grandson.” Now Harry was shaking, and he knew his voice sounded nervous, but he meant his words. He only hoped he hadn’t made a grave error in judgment. He waited impatiently for his orders.

“Tell my grandson daily that his grandfather is proud of him, and thank him for what he did for you. That is all I ask,” finished the trembling man, his voice now much softer than previously.

Mouth opened, Harry tried to speak, but, as before, he couldn’t find the proper words. That was it? Had Harry heard correctly? His expression must have shown his surprise because Snape’s grandfather let another small grin grace his face. It set Harry at ease, somewhat, but he still awaited the gauntlet that was about to fall. This was too easy; there had to be something he was missing.

“You thought I was going to ask something much more taxing from you, yes? At ease, Mr Potter. All I request has been asked. You and my grandson have taught me a rather important lesson. If my grandson saved your life, then he has proved me wrong, and I am thankful for that. I did not think Severus would ever amount to anything. For what he has done, he needs to be thanked."

A bewildered Harry nodded, still awaiting the catch.

“You have gifted me, Mr Potter, with the knowledge that words can heal, but you have also shown me that words can hurt; not only my words of these past few days, but the words of the earlier years of Severus’s life. I never gave him a chance, and for that I will have to answer. I regret that he had to once again hear my derogatory comments regarding him the other day. Sometimes words are never meant to be heard, yet they are. Fortunately, he also heard other words that gave him the strength to fight. Whether that is a good or bad thing remains to be seen, but being that Severus is alive, I think it important he know that at least one member of his family, other than his mother, loves him and apologises for the way they have thought of him.”

  


** SH  **

**   
**

Snape slipped in and out of consciousness, and each day, as Harry fulfilled the promise he had made Mr Prince, he fretted over doing such. Thus far, with Snape either asleep, unconscious, or too out of it to speak or act coherently, saying such words as he had promised to do had been easy. But what about when Snape recovered enough to know what was going on? Harry did want that to happen, really, he did, but, still, what would that be like? How would Snape react to Harry telling him these things? Not positively, Harry guessed. The mere thought of those eyes glaring at him made Harry uneasy, very much like those eyes had done when an eleven-year-old wizard had attempted to take notes and do something positive. That hadn’t exactly turned out too well, had it?

Fortunately, or perhaps not, there were other distractions to keep Harry’s mind on other things besides Snape. Most days found Harry in the air above the Quidditch pitch. He found solace in this now solitary endeavour, but it did little to quell his loneliness. Perhaps he had made a hasty decision by returning to Hogwarts. There were so many memories within the castle’s walls, and there wasn’t a place Harry could go where there weren’t physical reminders of what had happened in May. Still, it was the best place for him—he knew that. In a year’s time, he’d become an Auror-in-training, and begin his life’s vocation. In a year, this would all be but a memory and he would be able to get on with his life. Yes, that seemed far off at present, but Harry knew how quickly a year could pass. It was funny: When he had thought he’d never see Hogwarts again, he had missed it and wanted to return, but now that he was here for another year, he wanted to leave.

Draco Malfoy returned to Hogwarts, even though lessons would not begin for a month or more—something about his mother and father going to Africa—but he had said no more than five words to Harry thus far. He kept to himself mostly, but once or twice, Harry entered Snape’s rooms to see that Malfoy had been there. Harry wished to speak to him, but what would he say? No, if Malfoy didn’t wish to speak to Harry, then that was how it would be.

Hermione and Ron wrote Harry almost daily, but it wasn’t the same as them being at Hogwarts with him. Hermione’s parents were doing well; Ron’s were not—Fred’s death had hit the Burrow hard and Harry wished he could be more of a help during this time; if it weren’t for his promise to Snape’s grandfather, he would have already left Hogwarts and taken up residence at the Burrow.

It was a bit disconcerting that Snape continued to dictate Harry’s movements more than seven years after the two had first encountered one another.

Three weeks into this daily routine, Harry was seated by Snape’s bed looking at a Quidditch magazine, but not paying much attention to what was on the pages because of the varied thoughts that were whirling through his mind. Other than speaking the two lines that he repeated nightly, Harry never spoke another word to Snape. It was lonelier than lonely, and he sometimes wished Snape would wake up and scream at him. Poppy (the school’s Matron), had told him nightly that he didn’t have to remain, that he could leave after he said what he had to say. Harry always said he would do so tomorrow, but tomorrow came and Harry never left. He felt obligated, but it was more than that, and he knew it. This had initially been an obligation, but, with each passing day, it became an act that Harry very much needed, perhaps more than Snape did.

The door opened and interrupted Harry’s musings. He turned to see who was there: It was Poppy, no doubt coming to bathe Snape. Harry stood to leave, relieved, but he had an idea that his escape this night wouldn’t be as easy as the previous ones. Poppy looked at him with one of those looks he knew all too well. She needed his help. “Is there anything I can do to help, Madam Pomfrey?” he asked, hesitant to hear what she needed help doing. Two nights earlier, Arthur Weasley had had to hold the combative Severus Snape down as Poppy injected him with a potion. Harry had listened out in the corridor as Snape had put up quite the protest—he might be in and out of consciousness much of the time, but he could put up a fight when he wanted to.

“If you do not mind, I could use your assistance, Harry. I am experimenting with potions for Severus, and in order for one of them to work properly, no other magic can be used on him. For the most part that will not present a problem, but bathing Severus will be impossible for me to do alone. Would you help me with him?”

Harry’s frown deepened. She had to know that bathing Severus Snape would be at the bottom of his _want to do_ list, but she also had to know that she would not be refused. Harry had been in Poppy’s care too many times and had benefited from her caring bedside manner more times than he cared to remember. He could no more refuse her request than he had refused Snape’s grandfather’s.

It was awkward—seeing a naked Snape was more than a bit embarrassing, and it made Harry extremely uneasy—but, when Poppy asked Harry to clean Snape’s private bits, well, the weirdness of the situation reached epic proportions. Harry looked at her as if she were mental, but she handed him the flannel, stood, and left the room, a motherly look on her face.

Harry shook his head.

For ten or twenty seconds he sat there, staring at Snape’s bits and cursing Poppy silently. How was he to clean _that_? Harry mused as he tried not to stare at Snape’s foreskin. Snape looked so very different—his foreskin (and cock, of course) was so very large.

Harry no longer had his foreskin, even though he had possessed it when he had arrived at Privet Drive, so he had nothing to compare Snape’s to. Snape’s foreskin was the first he had ever seen up close and personal. Harry could only hope he cleaned it properly.

Ron would never let Harry live this down … and that was precisely why Harry would never let Ron know that such a thing had happened. Although, Ron could at least tell Harry how to clean a foreskin properly since he had his. Harry had seen it, but only from afar, and Ron’s was much smaller than the one Harry was currently looking at.

The few blokes Harry had been with had all been cut. As he continued to clean Snape, _down there_, he wondered how it would feel to be buggered by someone who had a foreskin, and he tried to imagine what it would be like to take a thick cock, such as Snape’s, that usually had foreskin protecting it, into his mouth. The mere thought made him hard, and when Poppy returned a few minutes later, he had to think of anything that would shrink his problem before she discovered that her helper was getting hard while bathing a patient—that would probably not go down so well with her.

To be sure, the mere fact that Snape had been the cause of such feelings was not going down at all well with Harry.

Much to Harry’s consternation, that night was only the first of many where he helped bathe Snape, but it become less embarrassing as the nights passed, and eventually he bathed Snape by himself and began to see past the awkwardness. Less than a month later, he found that he actually looked forward to the baths, mostly because of the quiet that surrounded him, but also because he felt an odd sense of peace when he was with Snape. It made no sense, but it was what it was.

No matter that Snape was almost always unresponsive, Harry began to talk to him about inconsequential matters as he washed the pale, lanky body with the flannel, and he would tell his former professor that everything would be alright as he washed the more and more grey-ish hair. Then, as he carried Snape back to the bed, Harry would fulfill his favour. He would then lay Snape on the bed, cover him up, and tell him that he should wake up, that everyone missed him. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was becoming Harry’s truth. He had become attached to Severus Snape and willed the man to improve.

Sometimes, therapy came in hidden packages.

One evening, Harry was awakened by Professor Flitwick, and was startled to realise that he was lying beside Severus in the bed. How had that happened? Harry removed himself from the bed, but as soon as Flitwick left, he climbed back under the duvet and studied Severus’s face as he slept. It was wrong, of course, to be in the same bed as his _patient_, but it felt right, and he was only sleeping. He was so very tired. He closed his eyes and scooted over a bit closer to the warm body next to him. It was all so very innocent.

To all of this, Severus was blissfully oblivious.

When Harry woke up the following morning, he resumed his perusal of the pale, peaceful face: Severus looked so very frail, and Harry didn’t know that anyone who looked as such could ever be okay again, but he fervently hoped so. Harry wanted Severus to wake up. He willed him to live.

Harry sat up and reached for the pale, scar-ridden right hand. It was cool to the touch. Harry took that cold hand in both of his and tried to rub some of his warmth into the pale appendage. His thumb ran over the pulse point, and he counted the heartbeats for a few seconds before he lowered the duvet and placed one of his hands over Severus’s heart, which was beating regularly. Severus was alive; he was asleep, but very much in the land of the living. He would wake up. Harry had to believe that. A few minutes later, he resumed his former position, his head inches from Severus's, his hand still on Severus’s heart.

Still, it was all so very innocent. Harry felt a responsibility for this man, but nothing more. Each night as he bathed Severus, he treated him as he would his father; he was gentle, and he was thankful. He was thankful that he had a chance to thank Severus for all he had done over the years.

  


** SH  **

**   
**

All beginnings have an ending, and the ending of this promising beginning for Harry happened far too soon for his liking. The day Severus opened his eyes, glared at Harry, and whispered for him to get out was another beginning: this one not quite to Harry’s liking. Harry refused to leave, but when Severus began coughing uncontrollably, Poppy insisted he take his leave.

Harry went outside, sat by the lake, and talked to the giant squid about how unfair it was that he had grown to actually care for Snape. How could he have allowed himself to do such a thing? Obviously, Snape didn’t care one bit for him. Harry threw a stone into the lake and growled. It was just like Snape to make his last year at Hogwarts miserable.

Not being one to give up, Harry went back the following day. What was the worst Snape could say or do?

Day one: “Get out, Potter.”  
Day two: “Get out, Potter.”  
Day three “Get out, Potter.”  
Day four: “Get out, Potter.”  
Day five: “Speak, then get the hell out of here, Potter.”  
Day Six: “I don’t want your thanks. Get out, Potter.”  
Day Seven: “The only thing my grandfather is worried about is my soul. Get out, Potter.”  
Day eight: “I do not like you. Get out, Potter.”

Harry vowed not to return the following day. He had tried, really, he had, but how could he subject himself to any more of this? Lessons were about to begin. He had more important things to worry about other than Snape, who hated him.

Ten minutes before midnight, however, Harry felt guilty. He had promised Snape’s grandfather he would fulfill his wish, yet he was about to break that oath. Could he do that? Of course, he could. Did Snape deserve that? No, he did not.

Sighing and putting on an altogether dramatic event that would win him the drama queen award of Hogwarts, if anyone were paying him any attention, that is, Harry dragged himself out of his bed and stepped into his slippers, then made his way down to the dungeons, where Snape had once again taken up residence. An exasperated Harry didn’t bother to knock. He said the password and entered the cold sitting room, then quickly made his way to the bedroom and opened the door to find Snape recumbent, staring at the door as if he were burning a hole through it.

He looked every bit as ill as he had the previous day, but there was a stoicism that hadn’t been there previously. He also looked as if he could kill with that glare. How was it that only a few days previously Harry had again caught himself fantasizing about Snape’s huge cock?

“My, my, Potter, it hasn’t even been three months, yet you were already prepared to break the promise you made to my grandfather,” Snape said, his voice finally sounding other than death. His hands were clasped together in his lap, and they were shaking.

It was this discovery that curtailed Harry’s desire to yell at Snape, but he would be damned if he let Snape get the best of him, yet again. “Yeah, I was, because I was tired of hearing your ungrateful voice, Snape. Unfortunately, my conscience wouldn’t allow me to break my promise,” was Harry’s response, his lips drawn downward in anger. He sighed. He really did loathe that he had come running back to Snape like a sick little puppy. Why couldn’t he be more like Ron?

Snape smirked. “You have one minute until midnight, Potter.”

Oh how Harry wished he could turn around and leave without another word.

“You can leave, Mr Potter. It won’t break my heart or anything such as that.”

Harry balled his hands into fists and tried to rein in his increasing anger. He was so close to saying something that would be the death-knell of anything he and Snape had ever had or might ever have, but he decided against saying such words for reasons not even he was sure of. “Thank you for saving my life, Snape, and your grandfather loves you,” he said instead, his teeth clinched and his lips barely moving. His words were barely discernible. His promise fulfilled, Harry turned on his heel and left. He thought he heard a small chuckle as he closed the door, so he said a few choice words, then didn’t think about Snape again … until he tried to sleep a few hours later, that is. Then he couldn’t get Snape out of his mind. How was it that Severus Snape could get to him like no one else ever had?

The following day, Harry walked into Hogsmeade to get away for a few hours. He was headed for the Three Broomsticks when he heard someone calling his name. Not wishing to speak to anyone, Harry turned around and grimaced when he saw that it was Draco Malfoy. _Wonderful_. He didn’t speak for weeks, then he decided to make nice. Harry wasn’t in the mood.

“Potter, we need to talk.”

“About what, Malfoy?” Harry asked, not at all in the mood for this.

“My mother saved your life, Potter.”

Yes, she had, hadn’t she? “And? Are you going to ask a favour of me as well? Do people require recompense for saving lives these days? I thought it was the nature of people to want to help without asking for something in return, but I am beginning to doubt that,” Harry replied, bitterly.

“No, Potter, I do not have any favours to ask of you, and before you begin getting all uppity, I know what Snape’s grandfather asked of you, and if it is really that much of a hardship for you to do such a thing, then don’t do it. It isn’t as if Snape cares. He’d probably rather you not.”

Harry glared at Malfoy, but didn’t say anything. How dare he! It was none of his business. He turned and began walking. This conversation was over.

“Go ahead, Potter. Walk away from me. Walk away from Snape. Walk away like his grandfather and father did. Snape is accustomed to people not keeping their promises. There, that is all I had to say. If you grow up and decide you want to speak to me again, I’ll listen. If not, then have a nice life, Potter.” With that, Draco Malfoy turned and began walking towards Hogwarts.

Harry stopped, but said nothing to prevent Malfoy from leaving. A few minutes later he sat down in a back alley, against one of the abandoned buildings. Why was this his life?

That night Harry sat beside Snape’s bed. The man looked so very weak. Harry felt badly for him, and wanted things to be different. He wanted Severus to speak to him with something other than hatred behind each word. It was a foolhardy wish, however, and Harry left for his rooms, dispirited.

At least he was doing as he had been asked.

  


** SH **

**   
**

A month later, Christmas holidays almost upon Hogwarts, Harry and Snape sat in the room on the third floor corridor playing chess. Snape was getting over a bad case of the flu, which had been made worse by his weakened immune system, and this was why he was once again on the third-floor rather than in his dungeon rooms. Harry was Snape ’s keeper this night. Poppy, McGonagall, Flitwick, and he took turns. Snape was not to be left alone until he was completely healed, or until the others got so fed up that they fled. Lucky for Snape, his keepers were a strong lot.

As Snape contemplated his next move, Harry wondered what the others did when they were sitting with Snape; surely they did more than look at one another with glares, which is the only thing Harry and Snape seemed to do these days. Okay, well, that was not entirely true: There was chess, but mostly, there was silence. Every once in a while, to liven things up, Snape would utter a few words, most of them derogatory ones aimed at Harry. All in all, it was a dour existence and Harry wished to scream, to get Snape to speak, to get him to yell; anything other than this silent treatment would be preferable.

While Snape seemed content to remain silent most of the time, Harry was not. Sometimes, when the oppressive silence became too much, he would carry on complete conversations with himself, and Snape would look at him as if he were mad. Harry would smile; he knew it got to Snape like nothing else, and it did him good to know that he could get to the man in such a way. Yes, it was immature, but it was fun as well, and there needed to be fun. Harry was tired of being so miserable. If he were really smart he would flee this hell, but, it was not in his nature to do so.

Amid all of the doom and gloom concerning Snape, there was some encouraging news for Harry. His previous feelings regarding being buggered by Snape had all but abated, helped no doubt by the fact that Harry no longer bathed Snape. Every once in a while, however, Harry would have a dream and it would rekindle that small glimmer … until Snape looked at him with a glare, or pointed to the door for him to leave. In any case, it never took long for Harry to remember why it was definitely not a good idea to dream about Snape buggering him.

That was a good thing. Life was much easier and bearable without the complication of unwanted lust.

For some reason, on this particular night, which was stormy and blustery, Snape seemed more distant than usual as he moved his pawns and rooks with disinterest. Harry wondered why but he didn’t care, or he shouldn’t. Why did he care? Immediately after Snape made his move, Harry moved his rook ahead two spaces (he knew he’d lose, so he really didn’t even try anymore, he just played to have something to occupy his time with Snape), then smirked. “Your turn.” As he waited for Snape to move, Harry studied him and wondered again if the man had improved as much as he would. He had lost a stone, perhaps more; his hair was almost completely grey; he walked with the help of a walking stick, and he had horrible coughing spells.

Snape made his move, then looked at Harry. “Your turn,” said the raspy voice, barely above a whisper.

Harry nodded, not showing his surprise that Snape had actually spoken, then moved, far too quickly.

“You’re not even trying, Potter,” whispered Snape, his eyes now staring through him, just as they had when Harry was a student.

“You’re going to win anyway, so what does it matter?” Harry asked, shrugging his shoulders. Wrong answer, apparently. Snape glared. Harry wondered why he bothered.

“Take your leave, Potter.” There was no anger, only resignation and perhaps some sadness.

Oh. No. Harry was not leaving. “I promised McGonagall—"

“It makes me no difference what you promised Minerva. I wish for you to leave.” Snape then began coughing.

Harry poured water into a goblet and helped Snape drink it. “You can’t be left alone. McGonagall would have my hide if I left now. You know that these coughing fits that you have been having while recovering from the flu are serious. Until your chest clears, someone has to be with you at all times.”

Harry was heartened to see a nod from Snape, but he knew it was only a small victory. Snape still looked lost and defeated, and he was. Harry knew how much Snape hated having others care for him.

“Thank you,” said Snape, his voice marginally clearer, as he set down the empty goblet a few minutes later. He shakily stood and walked to the bed. He sat down and allowed Harry to help him lie down. When he was beneath the duvet, he cleared his throat again and looked at Harry for a minute or two before speaking again. “Thank you for what you said to my grandfather, Harry, and thank you for what you have said to me each day since. I have been remiss to withhold my thanks. You did not deserve such treatment.” His statement complete, he shut his eyes.

Of all the things Snape could have said … Harry found himself at a loss. Had Snape just thanked him? He had. “You’re welcome,” replied Harry, his voice only loud enough for Snape to hear him. It was funny_._ He had been so very upset at Snape because of his treatment, and he had ranted and cursed at Snape copiously, yet all it took were two words to completely erase all of the previous animosity. It was odd, this sudden change, but it made Harry feel better. Snape once again cleared his throat, and Harry looked at him and saw that those dark, piercing eyes were once again open. Snape opened his mouth a few times.

“It had to be harrowing for you to be asked that favour by my grandfather; he is not the easiest person to get along with.” Snape let out a small snort, but then coughed. A pained expression took over his face. He closed his eyes again and breathed deeply.

“Do you need more water?” Harry filled the goblet again, knowing his question had been senseless. He handed the goblet to Snape, and then helped him drink out of it. “Has he always been so intimidating?” he asked once Snape had ceased to cough.

Snape drank a few more sips, then handed the goblet to Harry. He wiped his mouth with the duvet and glared as Harry opened his mouth. “He has always possessed a rather harsh demeanor, yes. He never had much need of me. He rather detested me, actually, although, not quite as much as he loathed my father.” There was a slight grin, but the expression that followed made it blatantly obvious that Snape did not think this subject at all humorous.

Harry didn’t know how to respond. When he finally began to speak a minute or so later, McGonagall entered the room, which was probably a good thing. He had never been good when faced with awkward situations, which was quite funny since he often found himself in such situations these days.

“Poppy is ready to bathe you, Severus. Harry, will you please leave? And would you return at eight? It is Filius’s turn this evening, but he has been called away.”

Harry stood, expecting to be relieved as he always was when given his leave, and expecting to be miffed at being asked to return later, but respectively, neither was he relieved nor miffed. He found that he wanted to stay. He wished that he wanted to leave and never come back. When had Severus become someone Harry couldn’t stay away from? Harry groaned, then looked apologetic when McGonagall gave him an odd look. She, of course, had no idea what the groan represented. Unfortunately, someone else seemed to be catching on, at least a bit. Harry’s breath hitched as Severus looked at him. “What?” he asked, rather exasperated about the entire situation. He couldn’t allow Severus to know that he cared.

“I think tonight, Mr Potter, I should like the two of us to begin our training to prepare you for your life as an Auror. I am in no position to show you any defence strategies, or how to brew potions, but there are other aspects of the art of Potion making and defence that I can counsel you in, and we can move on to more complex studies when I am more able. If we do this, Harry, I will expect you to give me your complete attention and not give me any reason to cease these lessons. Even injured as I am, my time is valuable. If I am going to spend it on you, you best make it worth my while. I’ll expect you at eight, and not a second later, understood?” Snape allowed McGonagall to help him sit up, then he carefully turned his body and leant against her while she retrieved his walking stick.

“Yes, sir,” was Harry’s only response as he walked towards the door. He opened it and turned to see a pained expression on Severus’s face as he stood. Part of Harry wanted to offer to carry him to the bath, but he instead left and closed the door behind him.

Those feelings about wanting Severus to do not so innocent things to him and of him doing not so innocent things to Severus were returning, and Harry was beginning to accept them. They were what they were and who was he to quell such feelings? He had done that most of his life. Perhaps it was time he did what he felt like doing instead of what others told him to do. Hadn’t Luna told him it was time to do as he wished? She was a wise witch. Odd, but wise.

It was just too bad that Severus Snape would never return such feelings. It was better that way, though, really. Becoming involved with Severus would be a recipe for disaster. That was what Harry thought, yet he couldn’t get the thought of him and Severus out of his mind. He would have to, however.

He had made a promise to Snape’s grandfather, and he would carry it out, no matter his feelings.

A few hours later, Harry found himself seated on Severus’s bed, facing the freshly bathed man, who had three large books before him, each opened, and each marked with ink and graphite. It reminded Harry of the Potions book he had used in sixth year. The Half-Blood Prince had taught him well.

Harry thought he was ready for another lesson from the royal-less Prince.

“Since you seem to find it so very difficult to part company with me, you should have no problem with our two-hour lessons. Now we begin, Harry.”

At first, Harry grudgingly admitted that he was actually learning something useful from Severus, but after a few months, he found that he looked forward to being taught new information, and he had even taken to reading for upcoming lessons, something he had rarely done in his earlier years at Hogwarts. It was a wonder he and Ron had made it through sixth year.

Severus gained a bit more strength each day, but he remained extremely weak and needed help doing most things, which he grudgingly allowed … except for the walking; he refused to have anyone carry him … anyone other than Harry, that is. There were times when Harry wouldn’t even ask—he would take it upon himself to pick up Severus and carry him from the bathroom to his bed, or vice versa. At first, Severus balked at such an act, but before long, he allowed the help without fuss, or much fuss.

A fuss-less Severus was not Severus Snape.

Not long after the lessons began, Harry took over the responsibility of bathing Severus, although, to be sure, now it was more of an interactive task as the improving patient attempted to do his own cleaning. He did well enough until he became too exhausted to continue, and this is when Harry took over. It was indeed awkward now that Harry was most definitely aware of his burgeoning attraction to the idea of having Severus bugger him into the floor, but he did his best.

On rare occasions, Draco helped Harry with Severus, and their former professor never let them forget how happy he was that they were friends. Harry and Draco always rolled their eyes at this because they were not, nor would they ever, be friends. What they were, were two young wizards who were doing the best they could to cope with what life had given them.

The days turned into weeks, then into months. Harry’s days were spent in lessons and his nights with Severus. If he got five hours’ sleep, it was a good night for him, but he was accustomed to getting by on little sleep, and he didn’t want to give up a second of his time with Severus. On occasion, he stopped to analyze just why this was, but he always justified his feelings by thinking that there was no reason why he had to justify anything he did.

All too soon, it was nearing the Leaving Feast. Both Severus's and Harry’s moods changed at the beginning of May. Some would say it was because of the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, and they would be right to think that, but there was another reason for their change, although, neither was willing to admit it to the other. Still, each knew and avoided speaking about the impending changes in their futures.

One week before the Leaving Feast, Harry was bathing Severus (more specifically, he was shampooing the now completely grey hair), and wishing that the days remaining weren’t so few. He had come to depend on his evenings with Severus. He cherished these times and knew that when he left Hogwarts, he would be unhappy.

“Why, might I ask, do you look so dour, this evening, Harry?” asked Severus as he set down the flannel and retrieved the soap.

His eyes were the very same ones that had implored a young, belligerent Harry to behave, yet they now implored a saddened Harry to not be so sad. It was difficult for Harry to reconcile the two. Unsure what to say, he didn’t say anything as he continued to lather the shampoo into Severus’s hair. He briefly closed his eyes as he allowed his fingers to run through the soapy strands. Then he began scrubbing the scalp. It was best not to dwell on what had yet to pass. He only stopped when Severus told him he was hurting him. “Sorry,” was Harry’s weak response.

“Harry, Minerva has spoken to me, and I am aware of your worries. You owe me nothing. You have done as asked. When you leave next week, you have no further obligations. Is that understood? I will not have you sulking around my rooms this last week lamenting over a promise you made almost a year ago. You have more than fulfilled what you said you would.”

It was fortunate that Severus was not looking at him. Harry shrugged his shoulders. “It’s time to rinse,” was his reply. He filled a goblet with water, poured it over Severus’s head, and repeated this a few times, then pointed his wand at the hair and cleared the remaining shampoo.

Severus sneezed three times in succession.

“We need to get you into bed,” Harry said, his voice rather flat, as he Summoned a towel to him, helped Severus stand, wrapped him in the large towel, lifted him into his arms, then carried him to the bed. He was disheartened to notice that Severus had lost more weight. Harry laid him on the bed and began to cover him, but before he did so, his eyes, as they had several previous times, scanned the thin body: It was pale, and there were more than a few scars that dotted his chest and arms. His pubic hair was course and dark, and there was a lot of it, much more than Harry had, but then again, Severus had a much bigger cock that needed protecting. Harry, having a rather small and thin cock, wondered again what it must be like to be so well-endowed.

When Severus cleared his throat, Harry realised he had been staring. Embarrassed, he looked away. Could he be any more obvious?

“It is rather large. My father said it was not at all normal,” was Snape’s response. He sounded upset.

Harry was taken aback at the bitterness in Severus’s voice. He turned back towards Severus and shook his head. “There is nothing at all abnormal about that, Snape. I’d say it was very normal, and that you are fortunate to be so well-endowed. Most blokes I know would kill to have a cock like yours,” and he then whispered that he would like to have a cock like that. He hoped Severus hadn’t heard.

“Do not wish for such things, Harry. No one wanted my large penis up their arse; they said it was more like a weapon. Be happy if yours is normal or small. Blokes might say they want them big, but the ones I have been with have preferred them small.” A touch of pink now tinged Severus’s cheeks.

Harry grinned. Had he ever had a more embarrassing or surreal conversation? “The blokes I’ve been with haven’t been disappointed, nor have I. It doesn’t matter to me if they are big or small. I like them all,” Harry said, rather nonchalantly. When he saw Severus grin, he felt better, if a bit more embarrassed. He and Severus had just talked about cocks, and he had just outed himself. What a completely odd exchange. He shrugged his shoulders and then tucked the covers around Severus’s naked body (Clothing caused Severus to break out into a rather nasty rash, so Poppy had decided it best if he wore no clothing.).

Harry banished the towel and empty goblets. He ceased his movements when Severus gave him one of those glares that weren’t as prevalent these days. What did that mean? Harry swallowed, but then forced himself to stop this silly, senseless brooding. He was Harry Potter for Merlin’s sake, and this was Severus Snape. If anyone ever found out that Harry had had such weird and completely mad thoughts about his former teacher, they would surely laugh at him.

“You do not need to treat me as if I am about to break, Harry. I am ill; I am not dead,” said Severus, his glare lessening, but still evident. “It is unhealthy, this attachment you have with me. If anything, you should hate me. You—"

Harry would not allow Severus to continue this line of thought. “Who will make you stay still when I leave? Who will make you do your exercises when I am no longer here? You are not an easy patient, Snape.” He moved his hand to Severus’s wrist so he could take his pulse like Poppy had taught him to do.

Severus stilled Harry’s hand with his own. “I’ll be careful, Harry. You need not worry yourself over me. I’ll not cause my progress to regress. You need to go out and live your life. If I recall correctly, you made the decision to return here for a year, then you were going to become an Auror. Your year is almost complete; it is time for you to begin the next chapter in your life.”

Harry gently squeezed Severus’s hand, then let go. “I’m sorry that my company has been forced upon you. I’m sure you would have rather Poppy to tend you. I guess you’ll be happy when I leave.” Harry attempted a smile, but felt more like he was about to panic. He didn’t want to leave.

“Mr Potter … Harry. I think, perhaps that I have discovered another reason for your melancholy this evening. Might you do me a favour and sit down across from me as you did when we first began our Potions and Defence tutorials?”

Harry did as asked, more than a bit worried. Had Severus figured it out? He closed his eyes, reopened them, and he looked pained, which worried Harry. “Are you okay?”

“I am feeling poorly, Harry, but that is no different from every other night you have asked me that question. I did not ask you to have a seat on my bed so you could question me, however, so now I have a question for you. You do not wish to leave Hogwarts? Is this what has you in such a mood?”

A lie to Severus would be unthinkable. Harry wanted to deny the truth, but he wouldn’t. “Yes. I—I’m not ready to leave.” There, he had said it.

“You are as prepared as you possibly could be, Harry. You will do wonderfully and you have a promising future. The world is yours for the taking.”

Harry nodded, but had no words. The temptation to lean over and kiss Severus was so very strong. Harry had almost convinced himself that he wasn’t the only one who wanted that to happen, but, if he was wrong, that would be horrible. Harry couldn’t take that chance. If he ruined things with Severus … but, then again, Harry was about to leave. When would he have another chance? He leant forward, ever so slightly, stopped for a few seconds, then continued moving his head closer to Severus’s. When he was almost there, Severus, with something akin to regret on his face, stopped Harry by shaking his head. Harry sat back and tried not to panic. What had he been thinking?

“There is so much out there waiting for you, Harry,” Severus said, his voice quite unsteady, which was understandable under the circumstances. “Out of all my students that I have taught, it is you who has shown me the greatest improvement. I had little hope for you not so long ago, but you have so completely surpassed my expectations. Much has been asked of you, and I am guessing much more will be asked of you in future. You are up to the challenge, Harry. Never forget that.”

Again, all Harry could do was nod. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He looked into Severus’s black eyes and memorised as much as he could; he never wanted to forget.

Harry left Hogwarts seven days later. He became an Auror-in-training, and soon became so busy with his work and travels that he had very little time to think about Severus, but when he did, he realised that he missed his daily visits and felt that he was disappointing Severus’s grandfather, even though Severus had assured him that his promise had been fulfilled.

Work as an Auror was rewarding, and Harry was good at what he did, but six months into his new job, he realised that being an Auror was not what he wanted to be doing. What he wanted to do was sit next to his former professor and help him improve. After a month of these thoughts pervading his sleep, Harry forced them away—he was being foolish, so he pushed any thought of Severus Snape away, and forged ahead. He became the top Auror in his division two months later, although, to be fair, there was not that much for them to do now that Voldemort and most of the Death Eaters were gone, so being the best in his division was little more than a formality. Even still, Harry took pride in his position.

A year after he left school, Harry was in Diagon Alley and overheard a father speaking harshly to his son. It upset Harry and reminded him of Severus. He returned to Hogwarts the following day and thanked Severus, who was now walking without a walking stick, and once again told the man that his grandfather had loved him (He never would tell Severus that all his grandfather had requested was to tell him that he was proud of him.).

A year later, Harry returned to Hogwarts for good. Kingsley begged him to stay on as an Auror and even offered him a larger salary, but Harry, ever the stubborn Potter, just as his father had been, refused, saying he didn’t possess the heart to be an Auror any longer. He neglected to mention that his heart was somewhere else.

He became the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.

Severus, now somewhat stronger than before, began helping the new Potions master, but, as he didn’t take orders well—or at all—mostly he helped Harry, who seemed to let him do as he pleased … most of the time. Harry wasn’t above giving Severus a look when he passed helping and entered hindering.

Each night the two took long walks around the castle, and at the end of each, as they stood under the moonlight, Harry would thank Severus for saving his life and he would tell Severus that his grandfather loved him.

Their moments beneath the moonlight seemed to become a bit longer as the weeks passed. On a few occasions, one or the other would begin to speak, to say something profound, but inevitably, something would always stop them. Nothing stopped the lingering gazes, the occasional hugs, or the accidental brushing of an arm against the other.

On December 24, 2001, almost three years to the day that Harry had first thought that he might like to have Severus Snape bugger him, the two took a longer walk than usual, and even ventured into Hogsmeade, which was once again thriving with new businesses. Once they were back on Hogwarts grounds, Harry stopped, turned towards Severus and tentatively looked into his eyes. “May I kiss you … please?” he asked, frightened beyond belief that he’d be denied for a second time. A few seconds passed in silence and Harry was sure he was about to be rejected again. He tried valiantly to remain stoic; he was an adult, after all. Unable to resist, Harry whispered _please,_ once more. Severus smiled, then nodded, a look of peaceful resignation, or so that is what Harry thought of it as, on his face.

Not giving him any time to change his mind, Harry placed his hands on Severus’s chest and was thankful that Severus bent to meet him half way. Harry kissed him briefly, then pulled away, unsure what this meant. His feelings had been developing for years, but he was scared and didn’t want to ruin this.

“Harry?” said Severus, his voice barely above that of a whisper, his fingers beneath Harry’s chin, caressing as he continued searching the green eyes. “Your words gave me the strength to live. Do not underestimate the power that words have. Our words that we are about to speak could hurt the other. I do not wish to hurt you. Please do not hurt me.”

Harry grinned as he caressed Severus’s face. “I might be taking a rather huge liberty here, but as we have kissed and are professing our feelings for one another, I am going to assume that it is okay to call you Severus?” Another few seconds passed before he received the permission he had been waiting for for years. He laughed nervously. “Thanks. You must know by now, Severus, that I would never say words to hurt you. I might have before, but not now, after knowing what damage your grandfather’s words did. They hurt me, and I am just me. I don’t ever want to hurt anyone the way his words must have hurt you.”

Severus kissed Harry, then hugged him. When the clock struck midnight, he kissed Harry once more. “I love you, Harry. Happy Christmas. I’ve something for you to read.” He handed Harry a sheaf of parchment.

Harry took the offered parchment, then kissed Severus. “Happy Christmas, Severus.” He wore a goofy grin as he returned his attention to the parchment. On the first parchment were the following words:

  


  


_ Today we honour the life of Jebediah Severus Prince. He left this world on 31 October 1998, after a long journey that he refused to talk to anyone about, but before he died, he asked us to please engrave the following words on his headstone: _

_   
Words can be your best friend, or your worst enemy. Choose what you say carefully. If you wish to give a compliment or pay homage to someone, speak those thoughts aloud—you might never have the opportunity to do so again. If negative thoughts are about to come forth, where permanence will deny the opportunity to reclaim such exclamations, think twice before sharing such sentiments: the lack of said musings will not overburden you. We speak with our mouths, hear with our ears, but the words we speak and hear reside within our hearts and minds. You never know when a word will make someone’s day, or destroy it. Use your gift of speech wisely.  _

_ Someone very special to me taught me this lesson and I hope none of you ever forget it. _

_ Thank you, Harry. _

Harry looked at Severus and smiled. Yes, words had immense power. “I still find it difficult to believe that I saved your life, Severus, but if I did, I am thankful. And to think that it was because of your grandfather’s words that I said anything …” Harry paused. Had he not spoken up that day, Severus might have died. The thought unsettled Harry, but he pushed it away. Severus was very much alive. “You have no idea how much it upset me when he said those things about you. You didn’t deserve what he said, Severus. He was your grandfather; he shouldn’t have said such a thing. He—"

“Harry,” Severus said, a small smile on his face as he placed a finger on Harry’s lower lip, “it seems as though he realised that, or else he would not have had these words inscribed on his headstone.” Severus then leant down and kissed Harry.

After the kiss, Harry took Severus’s hands in his. Yes, Jebediah Prince had learned his lesson, as had Harry, who would never again doubt the power of words. “I love you, Severus.”

 

** The End of the story I was told many years ago. **

**   
**

So there you have it: the story of my grandfathers and how they came to be together. To some of you it is but a story that has a message. Yes, it is that to me as well, but it is so much more. If you only knew my Grandfather Severus and Grandpoppa Harry, and knew of the animosity the two felt towards each other all those years ago, you would appreciate this story all the more.

Before I end this, let me now tell you about those other two special people who this book is dedicated to: Severus Snape and Harry Potter, the two wizards who have loved me unconditionally since the day my mother and father brought me home, even when I didn’t deserve such. I love you both, Grandfather and Grandpoppa. You are the beacons that beckon me homeward when life becomes more than I can face. I owe the two of you thanks for all that you have done for me. I am but a selfish wizard who has spared little thought for others in the past. Please accept my apologies for the disappointments I have caused. Through the writing of this book I have realised what a gift I have in the two of you. You’ll never know how much you mean to me.

Love always, Your adoring grandson, Alexander Draco Snape

01 May 2060


End file.
